He draws with hands that could shatter stone, Yet the lines are soft, and he works alone. A red bloom curls on the canvas wide, Like a memory he forgot to hide. The crayons blunt, the strokes unsure, But every mark feels calm and pure. No roar, no rush, no jungle call Just wax and wonder, that’s all. Crayons in the sun, Drawing for NOVA-One. Fists like thunder, heart undone He sketches peace, one line begun. The easel creaks, the paper bends, He draws alone, without pretence. A flower? A face? A dream half-spun? He draws until the day is done. Crayons in the sun, Drawing for NOVA-One. Fists like thunder, heart undone He sketches peace, one line begun. And when the night begins to fall, He leaves the page, but not the wall. The red shape glows, a quiet sign That even giants draw the line. Crayons in the sun, Drawing for NOVA-One. Fists like thunder, heart undone He sketches peace, one line begun.
